


Kismat

by justakidfromabadan



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Backstory, Battlefield, M/M, Swordfighting, The Crusades, War Mention, blood mention, death mention, in which the boys realize they're in love and stop fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justakidfromabadan/pseuds/justakidfromabadan
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Kismat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinyfuriosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfuriosa/gifts).



Yusuf al-Kaysani was not a man of war. He despised bloodshed but trusted in the will of his people. He trusted to be guided by Allah where he was needed, and here, in the battlefield was where his name was writ, by the hands of the Merciful and the Kind. So here he would stay until kismat called him elsewhere.

The day had begun with Allah's name on his tongue as it did every dawn before battle. Here on the threadbare silk of his prayer mat, with his forehead pressed against his well-worn turbah, Yusuf thought of his white knight.

Yusuf knew not his name, only the quiet gleam of his icy eyes, reflecting the glint of his broadsword. There was an unsettling stillness about the man in the way he fought and killed, yet Yusuf found himself drawn to him. 

That he held no love for Yusuf’s people was readily discernible, but the hatred he showed Yusuf was of a different brand. They had killed each other many times. Yusuf had lost count, but he knew what his knight was. They were of the same soul, made of the same stars, and in this, there was an odd comfort.

As the sun streaked the sky with its first rays, Yusuf titled his head towards the heavens, and prayer beads in hand, requested guidance.

* * *

Yusuf's scimitar was smeared with blood by noon.

He fought to shift the burden of the fight away from his brethren, fought to break the enemy's lines.

It was the hands of fate that brought him again to his knight, armor splattered with gore, face feral under a chained helm.

They sparred, dancing about one another. They had fought before, but this was the first time the knight fought as if he and Yusuf were the last men on the battleground. There was no denying that his opponent's footwork was excellent, his swordsmanship impeccable. Yusuf felt a grin splitting his own face. It was almost a relief for Yusuf to be honored to such a challenge after months of stagnation.

And soon, Yusuf was on his back with the sharp tip of the knight's sword at his throat.

"Do it," he said in his own tongue, doubtful that the man spoke his language. "Kill me again. I will come for you tomorrow. And the day after. We can do this as long as you’d like.”

The sun swallowed the man's expressions in the womb of its shadows, but Yusuf felt the tip of the sword quivering above his Adam's apple.

Then the sword hit the dirt next to Yusuf’s face. Yusuf flinched in surprise.

The white knight shed his helm to reveal damp light hair matted with sweat and the grime of the fight. He moved to block the sun, and Yusuf saw, with another surge of shock, that his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Are you always this dramatic?” His Arabic was accented, and he tapped the words daintily instead of drawing them up from the well of his soul. He held out a hand to Yusuf.

Time slowed. Yusuf’s heart made its presence known in his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of the din of battle, of the sharp scent of bloodshed and churned earth.

His hand gripped the knight’s, and he was pulled to his feet. Spring-sky eyes bore into him, excavating his soul. But there was no sign of the hatred to which Yusuf had grown accustomed. He recognized the look.

“You believe in fate?” he found himself asking. 

“It was never about the battle,” the knight said, with the conviction of a man who had found a truth and needed to keep repeating it to himself.

“No,” Yusuf agreed and surveyed the field. Their duel had taken them to the edges of the skirmish, and they were, blissfully, alone. “Perhaps we have outgrown this war.”

Mirth leaped to the knight’s eyes first, then his mouth twisted into a wry smile.

Yusuf bent and picked up his discarded scimitars and handed the knight back his. 

“What now?” the knight asked, sheathing his broadsword. He looked emptied of the fight, but there was mischief in his eyes, the promise of a beginning. 

Yusuf’s pulse stuttered. “A cup of tea,” he suggested. It was custom among his people that animosity be set aside over shared cups of tea.

“And after?” 

“And after, we will see what kismat has in store for us.”


End file.
